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An apocalypse (Ancient Greek: ἀποκάλυψις apokálypsis, from ἀπό and καλύπτω, literally meaning "an uncovering") is a disclosure of knowledge or revelation. In religious contexts it is usually a disclosure of something hidden, "a vision of heavenly secrets that can make sense of earthly realities".
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- wiki
I am a big fan of post-apocalyptic films and literature because I actually want this world to end. I like the thought of waking up tomorrow and finding that all of you people are gone. I would be so happy.
In my post-apocalyptic fantasies all of you people would die but the environment would be unharmed. I dont want everything to be blown up, or to get radiation poisoning - I just want all of you people to be gone.
So I dont mind the idea of surviving a nuclear strike in some protected valley like in the book 'Z for Zachariah', as long as there is no Mr Loomis hanging around - but I prefer the idea of you all getting some plague that only I have an immunity to. But not if you all turn into vampire-zombies like in Vincent Prices The Last Man on Earth - that would be pretty much the same as it is now if you think about it.
I recently watched a post-apocalyptic film that I found on youtube that was called - Where Have All the People Gone? - which is a 1974 made-for-tv American movie, and in it there is a bright flash in the sky ( a solar flare apparently ) and then the majority of earths population get sick and die - and after they die their bodies turn to powder. It would be ideal if you all turned to powder right after you all died because I dont want to have to deal with your stinking corpses like the survivors of the plague in the post-apocalyptic Stephen King book 'The Stand' have to, but at the end of the day it does seem a bit much to expect you all to just disappear for me after you all die - so honestly, I would be happy with a regular plague. I would just stay away from populated areas until all of your bodies had rotted.
I really do like the idea of being the last man on earth - but it would be even more ideal if a desirable female had an immunity to the plague as well. And that's why my favourite post-apocalyptic story is Jack London's novel - The Scarlet Plague. In The Scarlet Plague most of the humans on earth die from a plague and one of the few humans that survive is a dude that used to work as a chauffeur for this wealthy guy and the wealthy guy dies in the plague but his hot wife survives. So this chauffeur guy takes his bosses hot wife as his own wife and starts the Chauffeur Tribe. How cool is that? Chauffeur makes this hot chick rub his feet and everything. Its totally $%$%ed up -
https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2197...-h/21970-h.htm"And so I say to you that you cannot understand the awfulness of the situation. The Chauffeur was a servant, understand, a servant. And he cringed, with bowed head, to such as she. She was a lord of life, both by birth and by marriage. The destinies of millions, such as he, she carried in the hollow of her pink-white hand. And, in the days before the plague, the slightest contact with such as he would have been pollution. Oh, I have seen it. Once, I remember, there was Mrs. Goldwin, wife of one of the great magnates. It was on a landing stage, just as she was embarking in her private dirigible, that she dropped her parasol. A servant picked it up and made the mistake of handing it to her--to her, one of the greatest royal ladies of the land! She shrank back, as though he were a leper, and indicated her secretary to receive it. Also, she ordered her secretary to ascertain the creature's name and to see that he was immediately discharged from service. And such a woman was Vesta Van Warden. And her the Chauffeur beat and made his slave.
"--Bill--that was it; Bill, the Chauffeur. That was his name. He was a wretched, primitive man, wholly devoid of the finer instincts and chivalrous promptings of a cultured soul. No, there is no absolute justice, for to him fell that wonder of womanhood, Vesta Van Warden. The grievous-ness of this you will never understand, my grandsons; for you are yourselves primitive little savages, unaware of aught else but savagery. Why should Vesta not have been mine? I was a man of culture and refinement, a professor in a great university. Even so, in the time before the plague, such was her exalted position, she would not have deigned to know that I existed. Mark, then, the abysmal degradation to which she fell at the hands of the Chauffeur. Nothing less than the destruction of all mankind had made it possible that I should know her, look in her eyes, converse with her, touch her hand--ay, and love her and know that her feelings toward me were very kindly. I have reason to believe that she, even she, would have loved me, there being no other man in the world except the Chauffeur. Why, when it destroyed eight billions of souls, did not the plague destroy just one more man, and that man the Chauffeur?
"Once, when the Chauffeur was away fishing, she begged me to kill him. With tears in her eyes she begged me to kill him. But he was a strong and violent man, and I was afraid. Afterwards, I talked with him. I offered him my horse, my pony, my dogs, all that I possessed, if he would give Vesta to me. And he grinned in my face and shook his head. He was very insulting. He said that in the old days he had been a servant, had been dirt under the feet of men like me and of women like Vesta, and that now he had the greatest lady in the land to be servant to him and cook his food and nurse his brats. 'You had your day before the plague,' he said; 'but this is my day, and a damned good day it is. I wouldn't trade back to the old times for anything.' Such words he spoke, but they are not his words. He was a vulgar, low-minded man, and vile oaths fell continually from his lips.
"Also, he told me that if he caught me making eyes at his woman he'd wring my neck and give her a beating as well. What was I to do? I was afraid. He was a brute. That first night, when I discovered the camp, Vesta and I had great talk about the things of our vanished world. We talked of art, and books, and poetry; and the Chauffeur listened and grinned and sneered. He was bored and angered by our way of speech which he did not comprehend, and finally he spoke up and said: 'And this is Vesta Van Warden, one-time wife of Van Warden the Magnate--a high and stuck-up beauty, who is now my squaw. Eh, Professor Smith, times is changed, times is changed. Here, you, woman, take off my moccasins, and lively about it. I want Professor Smith to see how well I have you trained.'
"I saw her clench her teeth, and the flame of revolt rise in her face. He drew back his gnarled fist to strike, and I was afraid, and sick at heart. I could do nothing to prevail against him. So I got up to go, and not be witness to such indignity. But the Chauffeur laughed and threatened me with a beating if I did not stay and behold. And I sat there, perforce, by the campfire on the shore of Lake Temescal, and saw Vesta, Vesta Van Warden, kneel and remove the moccasins of that grinning, hairy, apelike human brute
There is a lot going on right there. Duality..
Anyway Chauffeur wasn't such a bad guy - he wasn't proud - he offered his one year old daughter that he had produced with Vesta Van Warden to Professor Smith to take as his wife but said that he would have to wait until she grew up.
Wouldn't it be nice though if you were the last man on earth and you had a Vesta Van Warden to rub your feet for you?
In my opinion none of you justify the existence of the human race. None of you seem to realize how disgusting you are. I would be so happy if I woke up tomorrow and you were all gone. I hate every last one of you.
So what is your favourite post-apocalyptic story anyway? Another favourite of mine is the short story 'Knock' by Fredric Brown.
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Originally Posted by Peter1469
